


Visual Snow

by obsolete



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Altered Mental States, F/F, Hair Braiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 05:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15478806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsolete/pseuds/obsolete
Summary: Rook shouldn't enjoy the Bliss dreams.





	Visual Snow

Rook doesn't want to wake up. Her body is leaden, laid atop something soft, and comfortably cool. Strange. It has been awfully warm lately. Sleep tends to be hard to find to begin with, and she is loath to give it up. But something had roused her.

The ground is shaking. No, she is being shaken by the shoulders.

"Wake up," someone says.

So, she does. Rook blinks up at a minty green sky. It is an unlikely sight… but it is what is. Sitting over her is Faith Seed, though, far more interesting to look at than the unusual weather.

"There you are," Faith says. A slow smile spreads across her face. Her teeth are so white. The strange light of the day shouldn't be so flattering to her. The green tint should render her skin sallow and sickly, but instead she seems to glow, ethereally off-color. "You've been here a while."

Most people in Rook's life these days speak rapidly, whether it's barking orders, relaying frantic information, or even among her friends it's often a matter of racing to get the story out before the next gunfight. The slow cadence of Faith's voice is startlingly pleasant. There is no rush to it, despite how she had been insistent on waking Rook up in the first place.

"Let's get you up." Faith hands are a gentle pressure, one on Rook's forearm, the other flat to the base of her neck, moving to support her spine as she is pulled upright. Once they are both on their feet, Faith takes Rook's hands in hers. "Come on."

"Another jump?" Rook's question sounds disembodied to her own ears, like it lacks the proper context. Jumping? What is she even talking about? She thinks, idly, of Joseph's ridiculous statue. Things really haven't made sense in a while.

Faith shakes her head, smile going close-lipped with a smothered giggle. "Not today."

Satisfied that her random concern was indeed needless, Rook follows, tugged along by her hands.

The rolling hills give way to forest. The branches of the trees here have no leaves, though the grass is summer-green. 

Deep in the woods, Faith stops. She spins on her heel with a giddy finality now that they have reached their apparent destination. "Sit," she says.

Rook does. The grass is dry and ruffling every which way with a light breeze. This place strikes Rook as lifeless. Naked trees, papery grass blades, and no animals, no bugs—except a butterfly.

The blue gleam of it catches Rook's eye, where she hadn't noticed it before. It is perched atop Faith's shoulder. She should have seen it sooner, having shadowed Faith's every step here.

Faith drops down at Rook's side. Where Rook is sitting cross-legged, Faith sits on her shins. 

Again, Faith's fingers curl around Rook's own. It pricks at something in the back of Rook's thoughts—closeness is something usually found in combat these days. Fists connecting to cheekbones, or less personally the flat side of a rifle serving as a shield against a baseball bat, these are what come to mind. Still, Faith seems totally harmless. She is all soft edges, lacking even shoes, let alone body armor or ammo belts. Rook can't find it in herself to get her hackles up.

Faith peels one of Rook's gloves off. To what end, Rook is clueless, but unresisting. The other glove comes off next. Something about the sight of her own hands is off. When Faith trails her index finger over Rook's palm, Rook winces. It's not pain, exactly. And the skin is unblemished and unbroken. When Rook moves to retract her hand, both of Faith's close around the wrist.

"It's okay," Faith says. "You're okay."

To be fair, it didn't hurt. But Rook is very leery of even putting her gloves back on all the same.

"Here," Faith says, brightening. A new idea. Or tactic. "Turn. Other way." Rook is now facing away with her back to Faith. This, too, has the vaguest, dimmest echo of alarm bells ringing. Such a small echo isn't enough to worry Rook.

A small tug at Rook's head sparks more than an echo—more like a low-volume alarm, or maybe a phone set to vibrate. It is merely Faith freeing her hair from it's ponytail. Her hair settles over her neck like a curtain. Almost a barrier between her and Faith now. So, Rook will allow it, never mind how pliant she has been so far.

Faith's fingers skim over the crown of her head, and Rook shivers full-body. It is the strangest sensation, but it passes quickly, split-second. Faith doesn't run her fingers through her hair, exactly, which is fortunate because if they caught on tangles it would be an unpleasant yank, but she starts filtering some of it starting from the roots. It takes a bit for Rook to realize Faith is adjusting the center part of Rook's hair to be a little off-side. That makes moderately more sense than Faith just playing with her hair, just not by much.

From there, Faith starts up what is definitely finger-combing. Strangely, Faith's fingers never snag. Rook is, however, distracted at the sight of a butterfly on her knee. She tenses, all predator-readiness. It bats its wings placidly, and she decides that maybe… maybe… it isn't something to freak out about.

Sound at Rook's left ear draws her attention away yet again—there is so little going on, but any one thing that comes into focus is all-consuming. Faith is humming. The tune is familiar, though Rook can't place it exactly. It is not unpleasant. Rook's eyelids feel heavy, and begin drooping shut.

The humming cuts off. "I would like you to stay awake," Faith chides her, but her voice is lowly sing-song, shy of sultry. She resumes humming.

Rook watches the lone butterfly. The cobalt-blue planes of its wings glitter on both sides, lit from multiple directions. Its body is liquid ink.

Meanwhile, Faith is sectioning off her hair. One lock is swept over her shoulder, dropping over her collarbone. Another is lifted away, leaving the nape of her neck cold from its absence. The third is left where it is.

With the gentlest of tugs, these three sections are alternated—sometimes retrieved, sometimes hanging back against her neck again. The logic in it is nonsensical. Rook isn't particularly worried. She hasn't heard the telltale snips of scissors, so whatever Faith's doing, it isn't permanent.

Faith says, "Almost done." Rook should have guessed. Less hair is in contact with her neck. It is interlocked somehow—ohh. A braid. Faith has been braiding her hair.

Sitting like this and having her hair braided is shockingly childlike. She gets her hair cut, but not styled like this. Not since she was a kid. Rook blinks down at the butterflies in her lap, not sure how she feels about this exactly. It's… it is a nice thing, is it not?

Vaguely, she recalls how Peggies wear their hair loose. It is a nice thing, and perhaps uncharacteristic for Faith, as a so-called herald.

"Feels like I'm forgetting something," Faith muses. Rook can sympathize. She knows that feeling. "Ah!" Faith reaches over, with the inside of her elbow brushing along Rook's hip. From the ground, she produces a trumpet-shaped flower. It is a bit beginners' magic trick, sleight of hand, the way it appears so suddenly.

The flower is a familiar shape, though the specific name eludes Rook. She gets the sense that this one is a little small for its species. A convenient thing, that, because Faith settles back to tuck it into Rook's hair somehow. Faith leans over again, chest against Rook's back again, to get another flower.

"There," Faith says. "All done."

Rook scrambles to stand up when Faith does. Her balance is off, but Faith's hands settle on her biceps, stabilizing her. The flurry of butterfly wings doesn't help, as they fly about, set askew now that Rook isn't as convenient a surface. They settle back on Rook in different spots—one on the edge of her belt, a couple of others cling now to the wrinkles of her sleeves, and one intrepid butterfly hangs for dear life off her shirt collar.

"Look at me," Faith says, barely pushing so Rook will turn around. "There." 

Her green eyes are appraising. Rook doesn't get the sense she has to be up to par. It's all Faith's work here anyway. No, Faith is just taking her in. Faith leans in close, face-to-face. Faith has to straighten up, and Rook generously tilts forward and down a little.

Rook thinks it's a kiss, because it must be a kiss. But only their foreheads meet in the softest of bumps. Judging by how Rook has witnessed Joseph Seed doing this with his brothers, it is a wholly sexless gesture, and Rook isn't sure if she is relieved or disappointed. The way Faith closes her eyes, lashes light and absent of mascara, is unsettlingly trusting. It bookends Rook's back being kept to her this whole time. 

The butterfly on Faith's shoulder hops onto Rook's.

When Faith's eyes open, Rook reaches up to—touch, though her hand hovers awkwardly by Faith's face for a moment. She settles on tucking Faith's hair behind her ear. It is a sad return on Faith's efforts, but it still prompts a radiant smile from Faith. With their foreheads still resting together, Rook feels warm to her bones.

This sense of unreality makes Rook bold. 

She brushes her fingers over the smooth edge of Faith's chin in an unsaid prompt. Faith tips her head back, nose a feather's touch over Rook's cheek. It is all too easy to press their lips together in the kiss Rook had been expecting, has been wanting, and just wants to imagine for a moment. Pretend this is all happening. 

The kiss goes longer and deeper than Rook had been angling for, but then again, Rook is always getting more than she has bargained for. More fights, more glory, and more space from everyone for what a Name she is making of herself. The closeness of Faith has been almost overwhelming in comparison, and this is something else entirely. There is closeness and there is forgetting; Rook forgets it all.

At least, until Faith pulls back, panting hard and giggling breathlessly.

Rook flushes, frozen-hot with the realization of her total lack of restraint there.

"Don't be sorry," Faith says. She pats at Rook's forearms reassuringly. Her eyebrows draw closer together. "I wish you'd stay."

_Knock, knock._

Quick raps on glass. Rook stares blearily out the driver's-side window at Jess Black.

"Deputy?" Jess asks.

Rook rolls the window down. Older model truck that this is, it's still done by hand. She hisses when the knob of the opener presses into a cut across the palm of her hand. She gingerly twists it with her fingertips instead.

"Thought you were dead. Shit." Jess leans closer, resting a forearm on the windowsill. "You're fucking lucky I'm not a Peggie."

Rook holds her head in her hands, not awake enough to be properly relieved, or to panic in the first place. She was asleep in a car. At the wheel? She looks around. She is on a gravel road. No, it's a driveway. There's a cabin up ahead. She remembers now that she has stayed a few nights there. She hopes she parked here by choice, and didn't nod off with the engine running.

"Geez, you were really out." Jess leans back, arm falling back to her side. "Nice hair, by the way. Not sure about the flowers, though." Jess makes a face, then walks off towards the cabin. 

Flowers?

Rook pats at her scalp, not too surprised to feel the hair pulled taut, except for how it isn't tied into the high ponytail she usually keeps, but it is—braided. Straight to her spine. Amongst the hair, she finds velvety surfaces—like deflated party balloons, or, yes… flowers. She plucks one out of where it is threaded through the braid. She chokes on air to see it is a Bliss flower. 

Rook wheezes, jabbing at her chest to dispel the coughing fit. This is not good. Not good at all. She frantically checks for more, and yanks out one other Bliss flower. Despite the repulsion, she is careful not to disturb the braid itself.


End file.
